


Community Disservice

by dragoneggos



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crimes & Criminals, M/M, Pining, Scones, Summer Vacation, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Watford Seventh Year, greggs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27845449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoneggos/pseuds/dragoneggos
Summary: When Simon Snow pushes someone down the stairs, he always expected it to be Baz.What he doesn't expect, is for it to be some random boy, completely Not His Fault, and to be charged for assault (not an ideal start to the summer).He definitely doesn't expect to end up in Hampshire, only a mile away from his sworn nemesis.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 22
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys I'm back writing another random fic that idk where it came from!  
> I do feel like I should mention that I'm well aware that the timing for this fic is off slightly- as British schools normally finish for the summer in late July, well after Simon's birthday. I've chosen to ignore this, obviously, for the purposes of this, but just know that this is bugging me slightly too :)))

**SIMON**

It wasn’t my fault.

I know it looks like it was, but it honestly wasn’t this time.

I’m sitting in the fucking youth court, waiting for my sentence. It all sounds very formal and dramatic, but in reality, I’m just sitting in some dingy grey hallway on a plastic chair, waiting for someone to tell me what’s going to happen. I think I’d be more scared if it was like one of those big courts you see on TV, with a jury and stuff. Maybe then I’d be taking this more seriously. I was almost disappointed when they took me here.

I’m being charged with assault occasioning Actual Bodily Harm, at least that’s what they told me. I probably should’ve been paying more attention than I was; I was busy trying not to set the whole place on fire.

There was this new boy at the home. Name was Riley. Only a temporary placement, but he was giving me hell. I’m usually pretty good at ignoring that kind of thing, going about my day, living second by second. Getting by. But it was relentless. For a week, he was in my ear, constantly muttering something, shoving me, stealing my shit, and it was okay, I mean, it was manageable. Until he found my Watford tie.

I keep most of my stuff at Watford over the summer- most of the stuff I care about anyway- but this year I’d made the stupid decision to keep my tie in the bottom of my bag, a reminder of everything I was trying not to think about. It was a mistake; I know that now.

Anyway, this boy, Riley, wouldn’t let it go. Literally and metaphorically. The insults got more personal, when they were about the one thing I cared about, the one thing that saved me from being just another boy lost in the care system. I tried harder to keep my distance: shut myself in the bathroom for hours, sat in the park right up until curfew. It probably looked like I was afraid of _him_. I wasn’t. I was afraid of hurting him.

I needn’t have bothered anyway. Only days after, I came out onto the landing, to go downstairs and get some water, right where he was wating for me. He stood at the top of the stairs, tie in hand, taunting me. About how I thought I was so much better than the rest of them, because I went to a posh boarding school, and how I didn’t deserve it, how I was just another fucking care kid. I balled my hands into fists and tried to mutter some calming spells Penny had taught me last year, but nothing was working.

I’d felt my magic bubbling over, spilling out of me, as I desperately tried to keep a lid on it, squeezing my eyes shut, whilst this stupid fucking idiot spewed fire at me.

There was no point trying to keep it down. Silence suddenly boomed around me, and I’d opened my eyes to find Riley sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

He had a broken leg, but mostly he was fine. And things _were_ fine (mostly) at first. I got a bollocking off the staff, but I thought I was in the clear.

Until his dad came to sign the papers and take him home.

He was fuming, raging at me, pointing his long, inelegant finger in my face and spouting swear words at me at a borderline impressive rate. And I just stood there and took it. It was what I deserved, after all.

Didn’t take long for a court case against me to be pulled together. I’m only surprised it took this long for something like this to happen.

The Mage isn’t here, which surprised me, I thought because he was my legal guardian and all that, he’d at least call. But maybe because I’m over sixteen he doesn’t need to. I’m not really sure, no one’s explained anything to me. No one ever explains anything to me.

They keep saying I’m lucky, all the staff. Lucky that my eighteenth birthday is tomorrow, that I’ll get tried in the youth court, as a minor, rather than as an adult. I don’t feel very lucky. All I really feel is annoyed.

“Simon Snow?” A woman calls me into the little room again (much too small for a court, honestly, is there anything TV isn’t lying about?) and I push myself off the plastic chair, and follow her in.

“You’re lucky Simon, the sentence could’ve been much worse,” the staff member says to me in the car on the way home. There’s that word again. Lucky. Like I should be thankful for the seventy hours of community service, for something that really wasn’t my fault. Baz pushed me down the stairs once, and he didn’t even get a detention (“ _It was an_ accident _Snow, I didn’t even touch you_.”). But I have to spend the rest of the summer scrubbing graffiti off brick walls and picking up rubbish. Not that I had any great plans, but it’s not anyone’s ideal way to spend three months. It’ll keep me outside though, I guess.

I grunt noncommittally in response: I don’t let any of the Normals at the home see any of me, anything real. Best for them to just think I’m another messed up kid going through the same system, following the same path. It’s safer for them too. It’s safer for everyone if they just stay away from me. I don’t think I would’ve even let Penny get so close if she hadn’t stubbornly forced her way into my life. Nothing stands in the way of Penelope Bunce once she’s got her mind on something. She’s the first (and only, really, I don’t want to think about Agatha) person I ever let in. Before Watford there was no point. Everyone else left.

We finally arrive back at the home, and I close my eyes briefly before stepping out of the car, allowing myself once small, silent moment of peace before stepping back into the chaos. Forcefully pushing back down my magic, and any remaining lingering thoughts of Watford, I step out of the car, back into the house that is the furthest thing I’ve ever known from a home.

The one good thing to come out of all this is the other boys leave me alone now. It’s one thing to get into a fight in the patch of grass outside that barely counts as a garden, it’s another thing to get done for assault. I’m older than the rest of them too, that helps. Sometimes I wonder if the people at Watford would even recognise the Simon in the homes. Then I stop wondering. Thinking about Watford doesn’t help.

I’m eighteen now, I could sign myself out of care, legally. I won’t though. It’s not like I have anywhere to go. It is nice to know this is my last summer here, though dwelling on an ‘after’ doesn’t help me in the now. This summer has been the hardest already; I have to keep reminding myself to take it day by day. Anyway, at least this provides some kind of fucked up stability. Who knows where I’ll be in a year? Probably dead at the hands of the Humdrum.

Maybe I’m too old to dwell on stupid childish fantasies, but I was half hoping the Mage would ring today. I’ve been half hoping that since I was twelve, but I thought after everything that happened, he might’ve at least checked how I was doing. Wished me a happy birthday. Maybe he’s off on a mission somewhere, a big snowy mountain in the Alps, with no mobile phone service, and no one’s been able to reach him to tell him.

Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

I spend most of the day in the park, staying out as long as I can, even though Riley’s not there to harass me anymore. Sitting on the swings, pushing my feet into the ground and wishing I had real wings so I could fly far away from here. Not that I have anywhere to go, like I said. But it would be nice to have that kind of freedom, like a bird, or a dragon. My community service starts tomorrow ( _“Best to get it out the way early Simon! Wouldn’t want to still have that hanging over you when term time starts!”_ ) and honestly, I’m almost looking forward to it. At least that kind of mindless work will keep me busy, stop me thinking about- things. I can make lists. I give myself a break from not thinking for today, and make one now:

List of things that are Not My Fault: by Simon Snow

  1. Having too much magic that I know what to do with (useless trying not to think about magic right now when it’s very recently fucked up my life _again_ ).
  2. That Riley kid turning up at the home.
  3. That Riley kid going through my shit and finding my tie.
  4. That Riley kid falling down the stairs.
  5. That Riley kid’s dad pressing charges. (Maybe I need a quota for how much I can mention Riley, like I do with Baz.)
  6. That Baz is my roommate.
  7. That Baz is a vampire (people need to open their _eyes_ ).
  8. That Baz hates me.
  9. That Baz’s family hates me.
  10. That my parents didn’t know I was magic.



List of things that are My Fault: by Simon Snow

  1. Fucking everything else.



It turns out community service isn’t all that bad. I mean, the work’s boring and we have to wear these stupid orange high vis jackets, but it’s not that much different from sitting in the park alone all day, but at least here I don’t look like a nonce. We’re picking up litter, and there’s a group of us, eight altogether I think, but they all seem to know each other from weeks of doing this already, so I mostly just stick to myself. I don’t mind though, as I said, I’m used to being by myself, my brain can handle that much better than being around other people.

The magic box in my brain is safely locked away, and I go all morning without thinking of anything consequential. My brain flits from subject to subject faster than the younger kids change the TV channels, from fizzy drink brands, to hair colours, to the different types of flowers. I could spend hours endlessly thinking of these things, thinking about everything, and nothing in particular. It’s a useful skill- for one half the year anyway.

“Oi Simon!” one of the bigger lads calls at around midday. I’m standing a bit away from the others, mostly by habit really, they seem like decent enough blokes (for criminals, I remind myself).

“We’re taking lunch. See you back here in half an hour?” they call, and my stomach rumbles, as if on cue.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright,” I nod my head and put down my things, and the supervisor nods vaguely, barely looking up from his phone, as we all wander off. I have no idea where to go, so I just end up walking in the opposite direction from the others, hoping to I find somewhere that sells food.

It doesn’t take me long to find a Greggs (England, am I right?) and I go in, desperate for a meal that isn’t another soggy sandwich like they serve at the home. I got some money on my birthday yesterday- some government money I think- and though it’s not much, it will get me some sausage rolls for the next couple of weeks.

There isn’t anywhere to sit, so I end up perched on the edge of the pavement outside, tearing into the sausage roll like it’s the first proper meal I’ve had in weeks (which, really, it is). And it’s then, with pastry coating my face and mouth, that I see him.

  
**BAZ**

“But I want it NOW!”

I break off from playing for the fifth time in an hour, as Mordelia’s screeching cuts off every other sound in the house. I’ve only been home from school for a couple of weeks, but it’s already driving me insane. What I’d give to be back up in our room at Watford right about now.

I can hear Daphne murmuring some soft response to Mordelia’s demands, but evidently it isn’t enough, because seconds later she follows up with,

“NO!” and an ear-piercing scream. Definitely not a Pitch.

“Mordelia I swear to Merlin if you do not shut the f--- shut up, I will spell your mouth shut,” I call down the stairs, already knowing my stepmother won’t be pleased with my use of language, though I’m way past the point of caring- I can’t even get through one bloody song on the violin without her interrupting.

There’s quiet for a second, and I make the mistake of thinking I succeeded, and I’m just about to lift my bow and continue playing, when I hear her burst into tears in the kitchen, followed by the soft steps of Daphne coming up the stairs. They talk about the terrible twos, but no one tells you about the spiteful sixes. At least she was cute at two.

“Basil, I know it’s hard, but please try and have some patience with your sister,” Daphne appears at the door of the library, a sympathetic, but worn out smile on her face. I sigh and put down my violin, already knowing I’ve lost this battle. I’m beginning to understand why Snow walks straight into battle wielding his sword- sometimes the sword does speak louder than the word. Unfortunately, I can’t exactly stab my half-sister, so perhaps it’s a useless thought. From downstairs, Mordelia’s crying grows louder as it drifts upwards.

“We were all that age once; you know how hard it can be.” At six years old I was still grappling with losing my mother, and far from the screaming mess my sister is, so no, it’s not really an equal comparison. Nevertheless, I nod my head vaguely, as Daphne floats out of the room.

I hear her return to Mordelia’s screaming, and while I have absolute faith in Daphne as a mother, I don’t imagine she’ll be able to deal with the hell demon that is my half-sister (maybe I should set the chimera on _her_ ). So, putting away my violin, I sweep up my phone and my keys, shoving them into the pockets of my jeans, desperate to escape the house before it becomes entirely inhabitable (it’s already well on the way there).

I’m not really walking anywhere in particular, just anywhere away from the Pitch Manor. It’s not my home, really: Watford is my home. My mother adored it; I think she would’ve lived there her whole life if she could’ve. I spent a lot of my early childhood there as well, so most of my early memories are in the Watford nursery- some of the few happy childhood memories I have. All that, and of course, my roommate. He may be my sworn enemy, but it’s impossible for me to feel at home _without_ Snow. He lightens a dark room, shines the sun on the most derelict corners- something my house is full of. I wonder, briefly, what he’d make of the carefully built secrets and half-truths that makes up the foundation of my family home. He’s so tactless I wonder if he’d even be able to grasp the concept. But maybe that’s why I love him- he epitomises the opposite of everything I hate.

I have my earphones in, though there’s no music playing, I just don’t want anyone to bother me. I wish my whole summer could be like this, avoiding people and just ambling aimlessly down the long country roads. It’s nice to get away from the stifling magic of the house as well- I can barely stand to be around Father’s magic anymore, it makes it hard to breathe. Everyone complains about Snow’s magic, but I’d take his a million times over my family’s.

Eventually, I reach the small town a mile or two away, that Vera does the shopping in. I’m tempted to turn around, but it’s been so long that I’ve really been around Normals, or shopping centres at all, that I decide to continue walking for a bit, to psychoanalyse the pathetic Normals that spend their whole lives in this small town if nothing else.

I’m at a particularly shabby part of the town (honestly, it baffles me that the great Pitch Manor resides this close to a _Greggs_ ) when I notice him.

I smell him before I see him, all butter and fire, a smell I could recognise anywhere.

Sitting on the curb, his face buried in a sausage roll, wearing a hideous high visibility jacket, his curls bouncing dangerously in the breeze, as if they know they shouldn’t be allowed to exist at all to torment me during the summer.

The Chosen One, in Hampshire, on this random fucking Tuesday afternoon.

Aleister Crowley, I'm living a charmed life.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it!  
> Let me know what you think :)

**BAZ**

I should have left right then. Turned around and marched straight back to my father, to the Families, to the right decision.

But, because I’m a constant disappointment to myself and others, and apparently weak for the fluorescent highlighter staring up at me, I instead, walk towards him.

He tries to scramble to his feet, which is quite a task in his too big trainers, clutching a greasy Greggs paper bag. No task is too mighty for the Chosen One though, and he accomplishes it, spluttering out in a mess of pastry crumbs that would disgrace a Pitch,

“Baz!” he brushes some of the crumbs off himself, “Baz- you’re… you’re wearing jeans.”

“An astute observation there, Snow. You seem to be wearing a traffic cone.”

“I-” he looks down at himself, as if noticing his ridiculous get up for the first time, “I- it’s for a, uh, a job!”

“A job?” I look him up and down again, sneering in (feigned) disgust.

“Yeah. Yeah, a job.” He won’t look me in the eyes, and I wonder yet again what secrets he keeps locked behind the bronze and the blue.

“A job. That brings you here, to Hampshire, two miles from my family home?”

“ _This_ is Hampshire?” Snow seems shocked at this revelation, looking around like he’s in a foreign country, “Thought you’d live somewhere a bit more posh.” I ignore this incorrect jab at me, bar from a customary eye roll, and continue the questioning.

“Surely the Mage isn’t that idiotic? To send you out here on a mission without a goal? We both know why you’re here Snow, we might as well drop the act and get it over with.” I don’t know why I’m egging him on, but I’m suddenly itching for a fight. I think it’s something about his magic, it riles me up (I mean not in _that_ way) (kind of in that way).

“The Mage? Oh! Well, yeah, you know, Coven stuff,” he shrugs in a way that is probably meant to be nonchalantly, but it comes off as the most unsubtle body movement he’s ever done. It’s almost worse than the hellish PE lessons from second year (I shudder even at the torturous memory). It makes me wonder what the Mage is pulling this time that has him all worked up.

I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to break him. He squirms under my gaze, and it feels almost nostalgic. I think I would’ve succeeded too, if his decades old digital watch hadn’t suddenly started screeching.

“Crowley Snow! What could that _possibly_ be necessary for?” I sneer at him, resisting the urge to put my earphones back in, just to spite him.

“Sorry, I, just, ugh,” he fiddles for what feels like an eternity with the three buttons on the side, until he finally gets it to shut up (honestly, it’s about time the Mage got him some better gear, if he’s sending him off gallivanting on summer missions to destroy the few remaining Pitches), “I gotta go, my lunch break’s over. But this conversation isn’t over, Baz. Be back tomorrow, same time, same place. I need to make sure you’re not plotting anything.” And with that lovely sentiment, he runs off down the road, a bright orange speck among the drab reality of a British shopping town. Yep, sounds about right.

**SIMON**

I don’t know why I do that. I should’ve just left when I first saw him, not sit down and have a nice chat with him, and definitely not invite him to do the same tomorrow. Not that he’ll come tomorrow, he seems to be under the absurd belief that the Mage sent me here to destroy him. As if the Mage has any time for me over the summer.

But, somehow, I’m glad I did that. Baz is the only part of Watford it doesn’t hurt to think about- probably because he already hurts to think about. And at this point, I’m so desperate for any kind of reminder that that whole world exists at all and some proof that I _didn’t_ actually push Riley down those stairs, that I’ll take anything I can get.

It is weird to find out I’m in Hampshire though. It’s not like I don’t pay any attention to where I am- I know street names and small areas- but there’s never been much use in knowing counties; they’re too big areas to narrow anything down. And it’s not like I’ll be here long anyway.

“Alright,” the other men greet me, as I’m the last to arrive back after lunch, it seems. I nod vaguely back at them, trying to hide the flush in my cheeks caused by the adrenaline of Baz and mine’s face off. I get back to picking up Coke cans again, and try not to think about Watford or magic or my roommate or vampires or Penny or scones.

When I get back to the home, the other boys steer clear of me, as if even associating with other criminals makes me more of a threat (they were quite nice really, one of them, Darren, even offered me a KitKat). I’m not even the most threatening person here, but a messy combination of Riley and my fucked-up magic makes me the one to avoid, and honestly, I can’t even blame them- I’d do the same.

Once again, I can’t sleep, though for once it’s not because of my buzzing magic (not using it at all over the summer really has its impact). It’s the possibility- however small- of seeing Baz again tomorrow. The possibility of a fight, of a real opportunity to use my magic (I should probably try to find my wand), of just _seeing_ another mage again. I’m terrified I’ll open my eyes in the morning to another day of monotony as just, Simon Snow, the orphan, which is all I am anyway. I probably will, as even if I didn’t dream that whole chance interaction with Baz, there’s no way he’ll turn up again tomorrow.

Not for me.

**BAZ**

I shouldn’t be here. More specifically, I shouldn’t be here _again_. Yet here I am, skulking round the corners of the, let’s say, _less classy_ side of town, waiting so I can be fashionably late. Rather than half an hour early (more like an hour early, I’m so bloody desperate, I’m a lost cause).

It was easy enough to slip out again- Mordelia started her- now daily- screaming session right on cue, and I was off. I didn’t even need to convince myself; there was no real choice in the matter.

I check my phone again for the hundredth time in an hour, see it’s now five past twelve, and practically run round the corner. I stop when I spot Snow again (is it deja vu if it was only yesterday? It feels like a lifetime ago) sitting in the same spot as before, though this time he’s looking around nervously, expectantly.

And he’s holding two sausage rolls.

I shove my hands in my pockets ( _“Baz- you’re… you’re wearing jeans”_ ) and stride over, as if I have all the time in the world and definitely am not longing to run into his arms, like in some overly dramatic romantic comedy.

I end up a few feet away from him, staring down dramatically, his blue eyes wide as he innocently stares back at me. And I see something beyond that, something more than the façade he’s putting on to please the Mage in whatever game they’re playing, something that shatters my mask of cruelty, and causes me to collapse onto the curb next to him, in a complete lack of dignity, and snatch the extra sausage roll out of his hands.

“Hey!” he exclaims, I think, though it’s hard to tell through all the pastry he’s spitting everywhere.

“Mouth closed when we chew Snow, we are not a barn animal,” I reply coolly, covering my own mouth as I take a bite. I’m self-conscious about my fangs, but too drugged up on adrenaline to care much.

He shuts up after that, and I think anyone else would have described the silence as awkward. But I still can’t believe I’m here, eating lunch with Simon Snow on the side of the road in Hampshire.

“So… you live round here?” he glances up at me nervously, and I realise he’s trying to make small talk with me. Aggravatingly adorable.

“The Pitch Manor is a few miles from here. Honestly, do you know nothing about your own roommate?”

“I know he’s a vampire,” I hear him mutter under his breath. You’d think someone so incredibly convinced of me being a vampire, would be more conscious of my super human hearing. But I suppose Snow never was one for subtlety.

“Why are you here Snow?” I ask, though I must have pushed more spite in my voice than I intended, because he looks up at me again, face stricken.

“I mean, why are you in Hampshire?” I add quickly. I don’t want him to send me away just yet. This is the only vaguely positive experience I’ve had all summer.

He looks down again, suddenly very interested in the pastry.

“Oh, you know. The Mage. Normal stuff. Not _Normal_ , but, well. You know.”

“I do.” That pretty much confirms it then: The Mage is definitely here on some business against us. I would inform Father, if I weren’t so pathetically afraid of losing Snow more than I already have. I just found him in Hampshire, and stupid as it is, I’m not ready for him to leave again.

I decide to stick to safer topics, ones that don’t involve the ridiculously orange high visibility jacket, or his purpose in my hometown.

“Done any summer reading yet Snow?”

He groans, and the wave of nostalgia hits me again, and for a second, we’re back in our room at the top of Mummer’s Tower, as I remind him of the Magickal Words exam we have the next day.

“Don’t remind me. I’m hoping to use the Chosen One pass again to get out of it. I wonder if the Mage will write me a note…” he looks down again, studying his- now empty- paper bag. It makes me wonder, for the thousandth time, what exactly the Mage has him doing that’s making him act like this. You’d think the Mage of all people would be reminding Snow to keep up with the summer work set. It’s a vital part of the beginning of eighth year. I finished mine two weeks ago (but then again, it’s not like I have much else to do with my time- I refuse to join Fiona’s schemes anymore).

“You can’t use that as an excuse for everything,” I sneer, “Soon enough you’ll be using it against the Mage.” It was meant to be a joke, but his eyes darken slightly again, and all I can think about is how I keep fucking this up.

“What’s it like, growing up round here then?” he attempts again to turn the subject to me, except this time I let him, desperate not to lose his attention, however bizarre this scenario is.

“It was… tolerable. I didn’t really leave the grounds much, I had a rather sheltered childhood,” I admit. I still don’t know why I’m doing this, why I’m making myself vulnerable to him. I think, because we’re in a neutral area, it’s easier to forget, forget, for a second, who we really are. How we should be acting.

“It sounds nice though, growing up in a massive house like that,” he’s still looking at me, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and I’m sure mine are displaying something similar. I’ve always been the grey version of his blue.

“Not particularly. I missed Watford a lot, after my Mother, well, you know. I suppose things got better when Daphne arrived, she’s nice enough. And it was a breath of fresh air after years of my Aunt Fiona’s corrupting influence,” I try to find the humour in it, in something that I’m not really ready to laugh about yet.

He’s still looking at me though, silent, but listening. Years of speech therapy failed to strip him of that: his ability to listen. I may have super human hearing, but Simon Snow hears everything- ironically, for someone so unobservant.

I’m not sure how long we sit there, him staring, as if struggling to get a good read on me. It’s oddly intimate, and the nicest interaction we’ve had since the obligatory handshake in first year.

Until, of course, that, frankly offensive, alarm starts blaring.

“I swear to Merlin Snow, I’m going to crush that thing with my bare hands if you don’t shut it up.” Maybe not so non-aggressive.

“Shit,” he mutters, quickly pushing himself off the ground and stuffing the greasy paper bag into his pocket. He looks at me again, as if not sure what to say.

“Go back to your Mageling project. I live here Snow, I’ll be around. Won’t be out slaughtering babies, or whatever it is you’re afraid I get up to in my free time, I can assure you.” I gesture at him and he nods, briefly, accepting this, before turning to jog up the road, that God awful alarm continuing to announce itself as he disappears into the distance.

**SIMON**

I’m not really sure what the fuck that was.

All I really know is I don’t want to lose it.

I don’t know if this weird interaction makes us friends, if we’re only enemies inside the gates of Watford (though he still seems to think I’m working with the Mage to destroy him right now, so that can’t be true).

All I know is that Baz is the most familiar thing in the whole of this fucking county, and the only thing that gives me even an ounce of that homely feeling I get at Watford.

I don’t get why Baz opened up to me earlier.

All I know is that feeling his magic again made me feel alive again, and allows me to think about magic, in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s ripping my insides apart.

These thoughts circle round and round in my head for the rest of the day, and it’s not until I’m lying in bed, insomnia ruling over my body, that I start to wonder if he’ll be there again tomorrow. I mean, there’s no way he will be, right? Unless he really does think I’m a threat, and wants to keep an eye on me. Maybe I should act more threatening.

He stayed today though, that has to be a good sign. He stayed, even though it was clear I had no plan or strategy to ruin him. I don’t think I can kill him now; even in that half an hour, he seemed more human. Less vampire.

I can’t let myself forget who he is though. Who he’s been. What he’s done.

I barely sleep at all, though, again, that’s nothing new. Nevertheless, I’m practically bouncing with nervous energy all morning, and I’m conscious that the Normals I’m working with can smell my magic rolling off of me, like some kind of demon sweat, as they stay further away from me than usual. But I don’t care, I couldn’t care any less what these Normal criminals think of me (I have to keep reminding myself that _I’m a criminal too_ ).

Finally, _finally_ , we break for lunch, though we’re five minutes late, and I’m flying down the road, conscious of how Baz views tardiness. Not that I expect him to be there of course, it’s not like we’ve arranged anything. It would be nice to know I didn’t dream it, though.

I stop suddenly at the end of the road. Because there he is, leaning against a lamppost and scrolling through his phone, like a fucking arrogant model from a magazine, because he’s too good to sit on the ground like the rest of us (I’m the only person who sits on the ground in the whole of Hampshire, I think, but my point still stands).

He’s wearing those black jeans again, and it’s infuriating, because nothing I’m wearing (or own) is that bloody nice- it’s mostly second-hand clothes from the home. It’s like he has to outdo me in every single thing, and it’s just another reminder of who Baz really is.

But before I can get annoyed at his (is that silk?) shirt, I notice another thing: he’s holding a bag of food.

And as Penny will tell you, I can’t stay angry at anyone that brings me food.

He looks up just as I reach him, which is definitely a power move on his part, because there’s no way his vampire senses didn’t sense me a mile off, especially in this jacket, but I remind myself of the food waiting, and try to shrug it off.

“You brought food?” I slump down onto the ground next to him, because if I’m going to look inferior, I might as well do it comfortably. He looks down at me in disgust for a moment, before reluctantly joining me.

“We’re in Hampshire, there’s most definitely somewhere nicer to sit,” he mutters, but I ignore him, focusing on the bag in his hand. I’m really a one-track mind.

“Ever the observant Snow. Yes, I decided if I was going to keep coming to this rough side of town every day, to convince you not to burn my house down, or whatever it is you do- I’m not quite sure- then I’m at least not going to eat another one of those repulsive excuses for pastry.” He’s unpacking two containers now, and my heart falls when I notice the green inside them. I must display this on my face, because Baz speaks up again,

“Calm down, that’s not all I brought,” he rolls his eyes, but he’s reaching into the bag again. And suddenly I couldn’t care less about the salads sitting in front of us, I’d eat a hundred salads for what he has in his hands: sour cherry scones.

“You brought scones?”

“So far, you’ve said two things to me since I arrived Snow, and both have been food centric questions. Clearly, this was the big element all my plots and schemes have been missing,” he sneers slightly at me, but hands me a scone nonetheless, and I almost cry, right here, on the side of the road.

It’s the best meal I’ve had since Watford- even the salad is good.

“Does the Mage not feed you?” My heart jumps; I wasn’t expecting this question, not when everything else today is going so well. And my mind jumps, involuntarily, back to the lost dinner and breakfast of the last two days, as I was too pumping with magic to feel safe leaving the bedroom. I don’t want to hurt anyone, so the only real meal I even get now is lunches with Baz.

I think he catches on that food is a touchy subject for me though, because he lets it drop. That’s a change from Watford- in any other scenario he would have pushed it until I went off.

“Where did you get these?” I bite into a scone, and it’s like biting into a dream.

“Vera made them. She’s kind of like our housekeeper, but she’s a Normal. Honestly, I sympathise for her, all the weird things she’s seen. And she has to live with my family, which is a problem I definitely empathise with.”

“Do you not like your family?” I’m treading in dangerous waters again, but anything to stop the conversation being about me- there are very few safe subjects for me at the moment.

“I mean I love them, in the obligatory way you’re supposed to love your family,” he leans back, face towards the sun, and I swear, for a second, he sparkles, “but I don’t exactly like them, no. Father… disagrees with a lot of my lifestyle choices. At least, he views them as choices, anyway.” I guess he’s talking about the vampire thing, though he hasn’t actually confirmed anything to me. I have to remind myself we’ve only been on this weird truce for three days: it feels like weeks.

“I’m guessing he wouldn’t approve of this?” I gesture at us, the unlikely duo, sitting here, eating lunch together like old friends, and not the sworn enemies we’ve grown up being taught to be.

He smirks slightly, as if at some private joke (it freaks me out), before responding.

“No. No, he wouldn’t.”

The next day is much of the same, and knowing there’s magic waiting for me on my half an hour lunch break is the only thing keeping me going. It’s like an addiction, which I guess, in a way, magic is.

“Okay, what’s the weirdest encounter you’ve ever had as the Chosen One?” he asks the next day, as I tuck into my third scone. The question catches me off guard, though it’s one I’m comfortable enough answering.

“Christmas in third year the Wellbeloves had a party. It was loads of drunk, high profile mages, and they would not leave me alone. I was awkward and thirteen, so when they kept asking for photos and autographs, I gave it to them. I don’t want to know how many embarrassing pictures there are of me from that night, but I’m guessing more than I realise,” I shudder involuntarily at the memory, remembering my reluctance to return to the Wellbeloves the next year, and Agatha’s mum’s profuse apologies.

But Baz is laughing, and for once it doesn’t feel malicious, and I grin at him, before realising it’s the first time we’ve ever laughed together at something.

“Have you not had weird experiences as the heir to the Pitches?” I ask, but I regret it as soon as I say it, as the leftover joy is whisked away, and his face darkens slightly. I’m starting to realise that maybe Baz has wounds too.

“Not so much weird as traumatic,” he murmurs, and I’m saved from untangling that by the beeping of my watch (I worked out how to turn it down, since I don’t want to give Baz _another_ thing to complain about).

But it’s only when I’m halfway up the road, that I realise I won’t see him again until Monday.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it!!  
> Let me know what you think :)

**BAZ**

“Where are you going, _Basilton_?”

“That is my name, Mordelia, don’t use it as a weapon,” I reply, shoving my keys into my pocket and trying desperately to escape the house.

“But where are you _going_?” she whines, and I want to scream at her. But, unfortunately for me, I love her, so I take a deep breath and try to be patient.

“Out. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I reach for the door handle again but she blocks me. For someone so small, she’s surprisingly persistent. I think Fiona would be proud.

“I’ll tell Father you keep sneaking out.” Damn her. I stop in the doorway. Merlin, when did I start getting outsmarted by a six-year-old?

“And I’ll tell him that you’re the one who keeps rubbing the homework off Mother’s whiteboard.” I cross my arms; she’s good, but not a master manipulator quite yet.

She glares at me, and for a second, I’m scared she’ll start one of her screaming fits, and then I’ll never be in time to see Snow. But eventually, she steps back, her arms folded, and her eyes narrowed.

“This isn’t over, _Tyrannous_.”

“My name still isn’t an insult Mordelia. Get more creative.” And I’m out the door, and hurrying towards Snow.

It’s been a couple of weeks since our first lunch together, though it’s quickly become the highlight of my _life_ (I wish I was being dramatic. I’ve lived a rather miserable life so far). I bring food, and we sit and chat and eat and- for that moment- everything is good between us. Act as if there hasn’t been a lifetime of bad blood.

He’s waiting for me, when I arrive, which is a surprise, but one that I secretly welcome. I nod at him casually in greeting, and his eyes feast hungrily on the bag I have in my hands. Seriously, is the Mage forgetting to feed him? Is he some sort of abusive pet owner?

“Alright Snow?” I say, sitting down beside him. All these weeks, and we still haven’t found a better place to sit.

“Did you bring the scones?” He asks, instead of greeting me. I swear, this boy cares about one thing. I could bring Bunce with me, and he’d still ask me about the sones.

“Yes,” I sigh, “I don’t want you impaling me with that bloody sword of yours, just because you didn’t get your daily inhalation of scones.”

He bites into his first one, and lets out a sigh of content, and I almost die right there. Although this summer has undoubtedly been the best I’ve ever had, it’s simultaneously been one of utter torture.

We don’t talk for a couple of minutes, though it’s a comfortable silence; I like having the time to just breathe in his magic. I swear to Merlin, it’s like a drug to me now.

He’s just got through his second scone, when he looks up at me, his face contorted into nervousness for the first time in weeks. I tilt my head slightly in curiosity, trying to convince him to continue.

“Baz- I. I need to talk to you about something.” My cold, dead, heart starts thudding a heavy metal song, and I thank magic he can’t hear it. It sounds like the loudest things for miles to me. This is when he tells me he’s going to kill me. And my family. Go ahead, I’d easily take the trade for this summer.

“Tomorrow’s my last day of--- of this job.” Oh. I know what that means. It means the end of these lunches in limbo, not quite friends but no longer enemies. It means a return to our normalcy, of sneaking around as he tries to kill me. It means the destruction of the Pitches.

“You’re leaving Hampshire then?” I swallow, trying not to show my enormous disappointment. It’s not that I didn’t think this would come to an end, everything nice always comes to an end for me. It’s just that I thought we had a little more time.

“No! No, I mean, I’ll still be around. But I probably won’t be here every day, if you get what I mean.” I’m not ignorant, this is most probably a lie to get me off his back. I filled his quota of scones and now he’s casting me away, like one of his wonky spells. I can’t even bring myself to be angry about it.

“Right, okay,” I push myself off of the ground and plunge my hands into my pockets, in an attempt to look unbothered, “I’ll see you at school then Snow.” And I turn to walk away, rearranging my face back to the stone-cold sneer he’s used to.

“Wait! No, look. You should still come tomorrow. I’ll finish early, so maybe we could sit somewhere nicer? Somewhere warmer,” he looks me up and down when he says that, and it shocks me that he’s making a vampire reference so calmly, “I’d like to finish my last day the way I started.” He looks down at that, and I realise this is a vulnerability for him. And though part of me is longing to continue walking, to flip him off and act as if this whole thing was a fuzzy dream, I can’t do that to him, not when our interests are so in sync for once.

“Fine. But only so I can force other self-respecting people to be subjected to your horrific table manners.” He grins at me, and I start to think, for that one moment, that maybe things will be okay.

**SIMON**

I don’t think I know why I’m doing anything anymore, but I guess, if I’m going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly.

I’m going to miss community service, and not just because of my lunch breaks. The guys are actually alright, and a hell of a lot nicer than the boys in the home. We don’t talk much, but there’s a sense of comradery, I think, knowing we’re all here for similar shit. I don’t think half of them even deserve to be here either, from what I’ve heard, a lot of them just ended up in shitty situations, not much unlike me (except they don’t have magic) (sometimes I wish I didn’t have magic) (have so much magic).

So, it’s almost sad when I have to say goodbye to them, on that bleak Wednesday morning. It’s late July, you’d think the weather would have perked up a bit to see me off, but it looks like it’s going to rain. Typical England.

As midday strikes though, I hit the required seventy hours, and I’m free to go again. I think I was supposed to have learnt something, to know not to do it again, but I haven’t. Well, I guess that’s not completely true, I learnt Baz isn’t as big of a twat as I thought he was.

I wave the others goodbye, who smile faintly at me (I think I still make them uncomfortable) (I still make most people uncomfortable) as I rush down the hill to meet Baz.

He’s standing there already, of course, the bastard that he is. But this time he doesn’t have the bag of food (I already miss the scones), because this time we’re not limited to my half an hour lunch break, though it may likely be our last ever civil lunch together. I think I’m going to miss this side of Baz.

He rolls his eyes when he sees me, as if the sight of my plain grey t-shirt is somehow more offensive than the high vis I’ve been wearing for the last few weeks. It’s an unseasonably cold day though, and part of me wishes I had brought a jumper or something. Baz clearly thought ahead (wanker) because he’s wearing those bloody jeans again (not like me, I’m wearing fucking shorts I found at the home, because ninety percent of the time I’m burning up, and it seemed like the more practical choice, at the time) and a knitted jumper, like he’s in some kind of autumnal advert. You wouldn’t believe it was late July.

“It would seem the only marginally reasonable establishment nearby is a Costa, but at least you can eat your weight in pastry once again, I suppose. And I won’t be forced to squat on the ground anymore,” he says, instead of a greeting. I’m beginning to wonder again why I suggested this.

He leads the way, of course, God forgive Basilton Grimm-Pitch be a _follower_. I don’t even mind. At least behind him I can make sure he’s not up to something. And I get a chance to check if he has any weapons hidden in his back pockets (he doesn’t, I don’t think) (I wonder where he carries his wand).

We end up squeezed into a little table by the window, the landscape looking out on this dreary July day. True to his word, Baz brings over three scones (they won’t be as good as his) and two drinks.

“I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got you the same as me.” He didn’t know what I wanted because he didn’t bother to ask me, the knob. I take a hesitant sip anyway, because it’s here now and I might as well, and I expect it to be something drab and dull, like a black coffee. So I’m surprised when it’s about the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Jesus Christ Baz,” I cough slightly, in surprise, “this will give you diabetes!”

“Like that’s ever been an issue you’ve considered before Snow. Besides, do you even know what diabetes is?” I decide to take this as a rhetorical question, because it’s easier than trying to splutter a muddled explanation (I _do_ know what diabetes it, it’s just his patronising stare makes my words jumble in my throat).

He sips his abomination with such skill I wonder idly how often he’s had it. Something about the image of Baz regularly frequenting his local Costa seems kind of wrong to me. But maybe I’m reading him wrong again, I have before.

“So, Snow. Since this is your last day ‘on the job,’” he uses air quotes when he says that, which irritate me more, because it’s technically not a lie, “when should my family be expecting a visit from your superiors?” Christ we’re still on that? I know he thinks I’m working with the Mage right now, but he still thinks I’m working against him to destroy him?

“Look, Baz, about that-”

“It’s fine, Snow. I knew this ‘truce’ was only a temporary thing anyway. I’m not going to take your scones away from you, or throw hot coffee on you, or spell you or-”

“I’m not working with the Mage!” I finally exclaim.

**BAZ**

I stop, mid-sentence (something I’m never proud of doing) and look up from the coffee I’d been studying, to just stare at him.

“I- I mean, I’m not _currently_ working with the Mage. I haven’t… I haven’t seen him since school ended.” He looks down at his fingers, tearing the paper napkin into shreds in his hands, and for once, I’m the speechless one.

“Don’t be stupid, Snow. You live with him.” Has he gone insane? Is this finally the fall of the Chosen One? Has he gone selectively blind?

“No. No, I don’t. I never told you that I did.” He still won’t look at me, though that napkin is receiving the full force of his emotions.

“Well, but- who _are_ you living with then?” I hate not having the upper hand in a conversation, especially with Snow. But seriously, if he’s not with the Mage who _is_ he with? The Coven? The Mage’s Men? I couldn’t even tell you who is stationed near Hampshire, this is Pitch territory.

He doesn’t reply, and I’m starting to get worried. What could be so bad, so horrific of a betrayal, that he’s able to keep his mouth shut?

After an eternity of waiting, of staring at the moles on his neck and willing for something to happen, he finally utters the one phrase I never want to hear from him again, “I’m in a care home.”

And all I can see is red.

“THE MAGE STILL PUTS YOU IN A _HOME_ OVER THE SUMMER?”

“Baz, sit down, shit, people are staring,” he’s tugging on my sleeve, and his touch is the only thing keeping me present, because, I swear, I swear on my mother’s grave, I am going to murder the Mage.

Nevertheless, I let myself reluctantly get pulled back down into my chair, because freaking out in front of a bunch of Normals in a Costa probably isn’t the best idea. I take a slow, shaky, deep breath, before finally asking the question that’s been plaguing my mind for weeks,

“What was the high visibility jacket for?” I’m calm, too calm, and it’s because I’m preparing myself for the worst. And I know this is justified, based on Snow’s own silent reaction, as I watch him pull back into himself, as the progress we’ve made over the last few weeks evaporates slowly, in front of my eyes, as I desperately try to clutch at particles.

“Snow?” I caution him, and I can feel magic racing to my fingertips. I wonder, briefly, if this is how Snow feels when he’s about to go off. Then I stop that thought, as I try to focus on not letting my fangs drop.

He mumbles something incoherent, and I have to lean in closer to him, to catch what he’s saying. I can smell his magic and his blood and his magickal blood all mixing and swirling together to create what is so distinctly _Simon_. And then I hear what he’s saying.

“Community service. Stupid magic pushed someone down the stairs, didn’t it.” I don’t even feel like shouting anymore. I just want to cry.

“He leaves you in a home for you to get _arrested_?” I’m whispering now, and I feel a million miles away from the shouting. I just want to hug him, this stupid, delicate, powerful boy. Because that’s all he is. Not a weapon, or a dog, or a sidekick. A boy. A boy that desperately needs looking after.

“I wasn’t really arrested. Just went to youth court and that. It really wasn’t a big deal; it wasn’t so bad.” He shrugs, like this is the most normal thing in the world, and I have to wonder what else the Mage has left him to deal with over the summers, that has left him so nonchalant over the whole thing. My family may be fucked up in their own, special way, but I know they’d go ballistic if I had to go to court. And not just because of our reputation, but because I know that somewhere (deep down) they _care_. And it suddenly strikes me that Simon doesn’t have anyone looking out for him like that, to pay for expensive lawyers and argue him out of situations. He just has to sit and let things happen. Maybe that’s why he’s so impulsive back at Watford: he’s the only one that ever has to face the consequences of his actions.

“Was he there? Snow? Did he go to court with you?” I don’t know why I bother asking, I already know the answer.

“No.”

My heart shatters anyway, and I feel extraordinarily too similar to that shredded napkin Snow is still clutching in his (too hot) sweaty palms.

“Merlin, Snow! He leaves you alone to deal with this every year? Why haven’t you said something, done something?” I’m starting to get angry again, and unfortunately, the Mage isn’t here to experience it. So once again, Snow gets the full force of my anger at the Mage. It seems to have been a real theme in our relationship.

“It’s not like I have any other choice is it?” His chair makes a malicious noise as it scrapes across the floor as Snow rises above me.

“The Bunces? The Wellbeloves? Crowley, Snow, anything has to be better than this!”

“I can’t just throw myself on other people like that! God, for once in your fucking life Baz stop being so entitled! We can’t all just throw our lives away to go and stay in our parents’ beach house for the summer!” I can smell his magic rolling off of him, like standing too close to a heater on a hot summer’s day.

“That’s not what I-”

“The Mage gave me everything. Without him, I’d be nothing, another nobody, lost in the care system, doomed for a life of shit. He’s given me a life, a place! And if the price of that life is staying in a home for a couple of weeks a year? I’ll take that a million times over the sorry fucking excuse for a life I was living before.” He needs to get out of this small, suddenly very stuffy room, before he blows the place off. But I can’t bear for him to leave, for us to fight, for this to be our dramatic end to our perfect (for me, anyway, and I’m a selfish git) summer.

He turns away, to storm out, but I grab his wrist, to stop him from going. I jump back, though, when I feel it. Like something I’ve never felt before. Like my whole body is a light on the inside but in a good way and for the first time since my mother died and I was cursed with vampirism I feel _alive_. Like Simon Snow managed to share his life with me.

My hand is frozen inches from his wrist from where I pulled away, and his eyes are wide and focused on mine.

But before I can ask him what in Merlin’s name just happened, he snaps out of it, and just like that. He’s gone. The door of this depressing Costa swinging behind him, like it has no idea the cacophony of messy perfection it just let escape.

And I let him.

I let him leave, like everything has left me before.

The Normals around me are still staring, our outburst seemed to have caught quite the attention.

“ **Nothing to see here** ,” I cast. Because there isn’t. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you caught the Twilight reference! (I have no self control)


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me a while to write. As much as I love reading fluff, turns out I hate writing it lol. I'm so scared of doing it wrong or messing up these characters that I love so much, so I hope I do them justice.  
> Any feed back would be appreciated and I hope you enjoy :)

**BAZ**

I hate hunting in the rain.

Especially rain like this- one flash of lightning and I feel like your typical vampire killer. Plus, it’s cold, and my stupid fucking reflexes have me jumping at every booming clap of thunder.

I manage to find a deer to drain though, who seems just as unhappy with the change in weather as me. At least she didn’t have to endure it much longer.

It’s almost August: this weather’s extreme even for England. It’s like the universe saw what happened with Snow earlier and decided to collaborate to make me feel even worse about it. At least it’s not actually snowing, I suppose. That would probably be worse.

I finally finish up and hurry back inside. It’s late (or early), and everyone else in the house is asleep, so I do my best to be quiet. Not that it matters much since this house is as big and empty as everything else in my life, but by now it’s habitual.

I’ve just finished spelling myself dry and am about to return to my room to bury myself under an extortionate pile of blankets and feel sorry for myself, when I hear a rustle in the gravel outside. I sigh dramatically, even though there’s no one to hear it, because hearing a noise outside at one in the morning is never a good thing, though I’d bet that I’m better prepared to defend myself than any Normal that’s trying to break into my house is. It’s just another hassle I can’t really be bothered to deal with. 

Nevertheless, I arm myself with my wand and stand by the door, prepared to face what is most likely a squirrel, standing outside my house in the middle of the night.

I swing open my door, wand pointing in front of me (probably not the best idea if it _is_ a Normal, but it’s late and I’m tired), and, as I shield my eyes against the buckets of rain, I’m greeted with- the back of Simon Snow?

He’s standing a metre or so from my door, head tilted towards the sky, eyes seemingly closed against the torrential rain. I slowly bring down my wand, as he whips round, finally hearing me.

“Snow?” Why is he here? How did he get here? He’s staring at me, his blue eyes striking against the grey night. A flash of lightening lights him up, and I take him in properly for the first time since this afternoon (it feels like a lifetime ago). He’s soaked through, and I wonder how long he’s been outside.

I step back, silently inviting him inside, deciding it’s probably better to have this conversation where it’s warm than out here in the middle of a storm. Plus, I figure he’s less likely to leave once there’s a door between him and the outside (I said I was selfish).

He looks at me for a beat longer, before rushing inside after me, suddenly desperate to get out of the rain.

“Baz! I- I. Look, I’m- I’m sorry about earlier. I got upset and you were angry and I couldn’t take it anymore and my magic was blaring and buzzing and blocking my thoughts. I shouldn’t have left, Baz. Because I’m sick of running away and I’m sick of not moving, not moving forward anywhere nice. I don’t understand what’s happening, what’s going on, but, I think- I think it’s important. I’ve lost everything Baz, my parents, the Mage, my clean criminal record. All I really know, all I really understand, is that I can’t lose this too. I can’t lose you Baz.” He trails off into a whisper, and though he claims to be the ignorant one, I’m entirely lost.

“Snow- I. I don’t want to lose this.” Suddenly, I’m the one whispering, and despite the fact we’re in my family home, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world.

“Good. Because-” he stares at me for a second, a nervous vulnerability entering his eyes, once again making itself at home. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably.

Then he leans closer to my face and all of a sudden- _he’s_ kissing _me_.

And it’s magic and messy and confrontational. And though he’s still soaking wet from the rain, and I can feel the droplets from his hair dropping onto my face, my whole world is on fire.

He pulls away, and a shiver runs down my spine as he rests his forehead against mine, not from the cold, but from the sheer joy of feeling so much _life_ course through my veins again.

“Simon,” I murmur, and I don’t need to open my eyes to know he’s grinning, the git. He steps backwards, after a moment, and I can finally take him in properly. His cheeks are flushed and glowing and make me glad I’ve already drunk. Though, I can feel blood rushing to my own cheeks though, so perhaps that isn’t such a good thing after all.

“Come on then, Snow. Let me spell you dry.” I still have my wand in my hand, though I’ve been waiting for his permission before casting on him, I don’t know how comfortable he feels around me yet (despite, you know, everything). I’m also trying my best to act calm and collected, when in reality, I feel like I’m high.

“Uh, actually. Do you have a shower I could use?” He looks around nervously, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the priceless furniture.

“This may be a Victorian manor Snow, but we don’t actually live with Victorian plumbing.” I roll my eyes but lead the way upstairs, and I can practically feel the shine of his grin behind me.

**SIMON**

I don’t know when exactly I realised I wanted to kiss Baz. I’d say it was just today, after our fight, but the more I thought about it, the more pressing and desperate the thought seemed.

I felt like shit after I got back to the home, once my magic had cooled off and I no longer felt like I was going to (literally) explode with emotion. I tried to push away everything that happened, hole myself up in the bedroom I share with five other people, and remind myself there’s only a month to go until I’m out of here. I didn’t think about Watford, because that would have required thinking about Baz, so I just focused on the generic freedom of leaving the home, leaving all of this shit behind forever.

It didn’t really work though- I was still up and staring at the bunk bed above me at eleven, still failing in not thinking. Most of the other boys were asleep, though I could distinctly hear one of the smaller ones trying to hide his sniffles- it was a sound I was well versed in.

I wasn’t really thinking when I got out of bed. Or when I climbed out the window. Or when my magic brought me to the ground safely, without casting a single thing. All I was thinking about, was everything I was trying so hard not to think about.

I knew that on the off chance any of the boys saw me, that they were all much too scared and intimidated by me to say anything.

It was only once I was halfway to _The Pitch Manor_ that I realised that it might not have been the best idea. But by that point I was in too deep, already completely soaked from the fucking storm, my cheap trainers already caked in mud that only magic could clean. I used that as an excuse to keep going. No choice but to push forward. Carry on walking.

And then I found myself there, at one in the bloody morning. And I wasn’t sure anymore. I wasn’t sure of anything except Baz. I hadn’t even knocked, I was taking in the rain, and the stars (the air is so clear here) and the posh stones in his driveway. But he knew. He found me in Hampshire, and he found me at his house.

He found me and he saved me.

**BAZ**

Seeing Simon Snow walk into my childhood bedroom in a pair of my pyjamas is the softest thing I’ve ever experienced, yet something I didn’t ever expect to see. Not that I’m complaining, of course, but I’m not quite sure how long it’s going to take for my mind to stop reeling over this whole thing.

But then I notice, for the first time, how small he looks. And I remind myself that he’s not the God like figure I might have built up in my head. But he’s just a boy. The boy I love.

I am reminded, though, of the mistreatment by the Mage he’s been through, not just this summer, but every summer of his recent life. Seeing how small he is, how he almost drowns in my clothes, I struggle to push down my anger at the Mage, I don’t _want_ to push it down. But then I look at the boy in front of me, vulnerable and warm from the shower, and I remind myself who really needs, who deserves, my attention more.

He climbs up onto my bed without invitation, and I sneer in feigned disgust. In reality, I have no idea how to handle this situation: there’s no handbook called _What to do when your arch enemy kisses you then crawls into your bed_ (that’s definitely a good thing, it sounds like a weird handbook anyway).

He sits crossed legged, and I follow him, sitting in front of him. He catches my nervous hands as I fidget with the bedsheets and I look up at him, at his soft smile. And I don’t feel so afraid anymore.

“How did you get here?” Better to start simple, I suppose.

“Walked,” he shrugs, and I feel my mouth drop open, “It was alright. The rain was kind of nice. Gave me time to think. Or not think.” I decide to ignore that last comment- he said it like some kind of a private joke with himself.

“How did you know where to find me?” I whisper- I don’t want him to feel like I’m interrogating him, or that I don’t want him here. This moment feels so private, so sacred, and I’m so afraid it will shatter any second if I make one wrong step.

“Asked around,” he shrugs again, and I’m left pondering this nonchalance, “Not the best people are out at midnight, even in Hampshire, but I got here alright. Turns out your house is pretty well known. The walk up to it was a fucking trek though.”

My head is spinning at the fact that Simon Snow walked miles in the pouring rain, asked directions from random sketchy men on the streets in the dark, just to find me.

“Don’t you have any semblance of self-preservation?”

“Made of magic, aren’t I? Most of the boys at the home are probably more dangerous anyway.” He pulls away from my hand and starts picking at my bedsheets, and I’m reminded of the napkin in the Costa, and decide to file the subject away for another time.

“Baz?” His eyes reach up to meet mine, like a drowning hand reaching for help. I’m once again struck with the stark realisation that I would do absolutely anything for this man.

“Snow?”

“You called me Simon before,” he grumbles.

“I most certainly did not.”

“Baz?” He tries again, and his blue eyes melt me, like paper in the rain. “Do you have any food?” Not the question I was expecting (or hoping for) but it nonetheless it does not surprise me. The make a big show of rolling my eyes, as if this is the greatest hardship of my life, before casting.

“ **Tea time!** ” A beautiful array of pastry appears in front of us (it seems to be the only thing I am capable of feeding Snow) as well as a pot of tea. I slowly pour myself a cup, and sip on it thoughtfully, for once not relying on it to warm my hands (his life is still coursing through me).

His eyes pop, and he grabs a croissant, shoving it in his mouth with a lack of dignity that would astonish the French (“ _bouche fermée en mangeant!”_ ) but yet I can’t look away from. I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of Snow.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” He’s spraying crumbs all over my expensive sheets- if this was at Watford, I’d be having a fit. But we’re not at Watford. We’re here, warm and safe in my childhood bedroom, the rain cocooning us so we are the only people in the world, the only things that matter, and I can’t bring myself to care.

“No, thank you.” I gesture towards the food, giving him permission and sipping my tea. I’m still not comfortable at the idea of my fangs popping around him, especially after what just happened (would he not want to kiss me again if he saw my fangs?) (Will he ever want to kiss me again?).

“I don’t care, you know.” He swallows, and I watch because I am freakish and perverted and have some weird neck obsession (it’s probably a vampire thing) (I hope it’s not a vampire thing).

“Care to expand?” I ask when he leaves the statement there hanging, like his sole aim in life is to drive me to insanity.

“About the fangs. It’s not like I’ve never seen them before,” he shrugs again, and I don’t quite understand.

“Snow, you spent all of fifth year stalking me and telling the entire school that I was a vampire,” I point out, raising my eyebrows at him. He looks slightly uncomfortable at this, shifting and studying my bedsheet once again.

“Yeah. I mean. Sorry about that,” he shrugs _again_ , “It doesn’t bother me _anymore_ ,” he elaborates.

“It doesn’t bother you anymore?” I ask bluntly. I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

“It didn’t bother me when I had my tongue down your throat did it?” Ah, so we _are_ talking about it. Although his brash language makes it feel slightly less magical.

He sighs, like this is too complex of a concept for me to grasp, before trying again.

“Look. It’s like, I know you’re not gonna kill me in my sleep anymore. Not that I ever really thought that but, like,” he runs his hand through his damp curls, as his words frustrate him. For once, I don’t berate him over this- I’m too desperate to hear what he has to say.

“You’re not bad, Baz.” He looks me straight in the eyes when he says that and I swear to Crowley something passes between us. “I know you think you are. But you’re not bad, you’re not evil, you’re not a monster. You’re good. You bring me scones. You make me laugh. You shelter me from the rain. You’re complete goodness.”

I stare at him for a moment, in shock. I’m about to open my mouth to say something, contradict him, push him away with warnings about how dangerous I really am, acting on instinct. But then he leans in and I shut up and forget everything. Forget everything except his mouth, and how warm it is. How soft he is.

When he finally pulls away, we’re both gasping for breath (it’s embarrassing). His eyes sparkle in the dim light of my room, and I feel like I’m falling in love with him all over again. He laughs at me and the sound makes me smile. He’s the only thing that can make me smile.

“Now eat a chocolate croissant and quit whining.” He bites into what might be his third one.

“It’s a pain au chocolat, Snow.”

“Whatever. Tastes bloody fantastic.”

And he’s right, the bastard. It tastes amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I write a Snowbaz fic without using the "and then he kisses me" line? That's a secret I'll never tell xoxo.
> 
> "bouche fermée en mangeant!"- translates to "mouth closed when eating!"


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good Christmas, or is having a good holiday season, whatever you celebrate! Sorry this chapter took so long!
> 
> A lot of this fic (and especially this chapter) is inspired by @BasicBathsheba 's 'This Must Be The Place' so please check that out if you haven't already- it's an amazing fic :)

**SIMON**

It’s late, it’s too late, and there are crumbs in his bed that he hasn’t bothered magicking away and I’m glowing.

Literally, glowing. I feel like my magic is escaping me, but not in a bad way. Like I’m buzzing with an aura.

Baz is just staring at me, we were talking, having finished his tea, when my magic rose to the surface. It’s never done this before. It’s not bad or scary, not like going off. It feels nice, for once. I wonder if this is how most magicians feel all the time, like their magic is their friend. Mine is very rarely my friend.

Baz is still staring at me. It’s hard to concentrate on anything, when my magic is overflowing like this. And then suddenly it all feels like too much, and I feel like I’m going to be sick, except not really, I don’t think, and I just feel like it’s all too much and I just want it all to stop. Stop spinning and confusing me.

So much for it being my friend.

“Snow, are you-” Baz starts.

And then he grabs my hand.

And everything feels okay again.

It’s like an outlet, like suddenly, everything has somewhere to go. Everything has a place to be, a right place to be. So, I do just that- I let go. And then Baz is fizzing too.

It doesn’t make any sense- Pen’s made the mistake of touching me before going off (though I think this is a different kind of going off, less angry) and I _burnt_ her. Literally scalded her hand (I felt really bad after). But Baz isn’t screaming or pushing me away. His eyes are wide and brimming with tears, but his mouth hangs open, as if overflowing with wonder.

“Crowley, Snow,” he whispers. And then he giggles, and it’s the most un-Baz like sound I think I’ve ever heard. And I think I love it.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, because he’s whispering and I don’t want anything to ruin this.

“Simon I- Merlin, I’m better than okay. I can’t remember ever feeling this alive before. This is more than alive. What’s happening, what are you doing?” It’s not an accusation, it’s awe, it’s amazement, and it’s strange to hear that tone applied to something I’m doing, especially by Baz.

“I’m not sure. I felt all my magic rising up, and you touched me and- and, it was like earlier! In the café, you remember?” he nods slowly, in a daze, “It’s like I just let go of whatever was holding it in. and felt it flow into you.”

“Have you done that before?” He’s still whispering, I’m whispering, and I’m so scared of shattering this.

“Never. My magic-” everything about my magic makes me feel self-conscious, and I bow my head slightly, “it always burnt other people. Even the smell of it seems to make people feel uneasy. You were the only one who could stand being in a room with me for so long. But I guess that’s because you had to be.”

“That’s not why.” His voice is barely audible now, and despite everything flying between us, I’m still straining to hear him. “I love your magic, Simon. Sometimes, I think I live for it, what it represents. Smelling your smoke and knowing you’re okay, even after the Mage has sent you out to, slay a dragon, or something equally as stupidly dangerous. That’s all that ever mattered to me. Knowing you were okay. Knowing you’re still okay.”

And fuck it, I can’t help it. I kiss him again.

Apparently, our mouths being locked while my magic is still swirling does interesting things. It takes me a moment to notice (I’m very much a one-track mind) but when Baz suddenly pulls away, I open my eyes to see us surrounded by stars.

We are truly the only ones in the galaxy.

I want to stay here forever.

“Baz…” I breathe, there’s no words to explain the night we’ve been having. No English words feel big enough.

“ _Brille, brille, petite étoile_ ,” Baz replies, flawlessly reading my mind (vampire thing, I imagine) (or maybe just a Baz thing), gazing around us, at me, at everything (we are everything). “It’s been a night of French,” he says, as if this is supposed to offer me some sort of explanation.

“What?” I hate being the stupid one, but I don’t want to feel lost when I’m just starting to feel found.

“ _Twinkle, twinkle, little star_ , it’s the French translation. My mother used to sing it to me, to encourage my language learning,” he’s speaking to freely, so beautifully, I think I could listen to the tone of his voice all day, “I was thinking about it, before. Your freckles, they look like a galaxy, laid out on your skin. But I didn’t utter a word. Wordless magic, Simon. Wordless.”

I may not be the most skilled magician, but even I understand the power in that. But this is our thing, Baz and mine. Proof that maybe this is what’s right, rather than fist fights and sabotage and pushing people down the stairs.

Maybe all I ever needed was to lay here, under the stars we made, with Baz in my arms. Maybe this is enough.

And tonight, it is.

**BAZ**

I wake up groggy, like an intense hangover. I groan, pulling an arm over my face to block out the light, and wondering if this is how Snow feels all the time, though then again, he’s never had to experience the after effects of his magic. I’m still half asleep when I reach an arm across the bed to find him, when I realise it’s significantly colder than it was last night, when we fell asleep under the stars, our stars, because the galaxy belongs to us.

I sit up, properly, and let my eyes adjust to the light, searching for him. Did he escape in the night? Was all of this just an elaborate scheme to steal more pastry from me?

I’m still fumbling about (it’s a very graceless search, I’m almost glad Snow isn’t here to witness it) when my hand catches on the piece of folded paper on the pillow next to me.

I scan the page, my eyebrows creasing ever so slightly in annoyance when I realise he’s ripped out a page from my favourite notebook. But then my brain catches up with my eyes and I realise what I’m reading.

_Baz,_

_I won’t ever forget about last night, so don’t go pretending it didn’t happen._

My cold, undead heart skips a beat at that bit: is he going to hate even more for letting it happen? Is he already so deeply immersed in a pool of regret that he is blind to the beauty that we are together?

_Because I don’t want to forget it, Baz. Ever._

_Thank you for giving me a safe haven, even if it was just for one magickal night._

_I have to go, before they realise I’m gone and call the police (again). But there’s still a few more weeks of the summer left. Don’t forget about me._

_Simon Snow_

I turn the paper over, my hands shaking, and stop short when I see the what’s inscribed on the back, in his messy, childish handwriting (forget speech therapy, someone needs to teach that boy how to use cursive).

It’s an address, for a children’s home a couple of miles away, I recognise the road.

And suddenly I know what I have to do.

**SIMON**

I’m lying in my bed back at the home (a bottom bunk; I couldn’t be arsed to fight for a top one), my eyes closed, just letting thoughts of last night wash over me. It doesn’t hurt to think about, not when it’s so real, so mine.

Last night Baz murmured my name against my neck in his sleep. I think about that.

I don’t bother trying to sort out my feelings, put it all in an easily labelled box and understand what it all means (Penny would be disappointed). I know how I feel about Baz. That seems like all that matters at the moment. Maybe that’s all that really matters at all.

I do wish we’d sorted this out much sooner though. I think of all those wasted years at Watford, my messy break up with Agatha before the summer, the football games spent staring holes into the back of Baz’s shirt. I just wish we’d spent the time better, knowing what I know now.

I’m laying there, finally letting these thoughts consume and protect me, when one of the care workers comes in, knocking pointlessly on the open door.

“Simon?” I reluctantly open my eyes, forcing my body to sit up (I’m still exhausted from the long walk in the rain, and it’s not like I’ve been sleeping well here generally).

“Yeah?” I offer, uncertainly. Nine times out of ten a care worker asking for you is bad news. Last time it was to tell me I was going to court, which is always a fun conversation to have. The other boys know this as well, and the few left in the too-small room shift warily where they’re sitting. I resist the urge to roll my eyes: I’m turning into Baz.

“Come downstairs please. You have a visitor.” I turn cold at this. I know it can’t be Baz- I only left his house a few hours ago, and what reason would he have for visiting me already? It could be the Mage, I guess, but for some reason that scares me more than it being someone unknown. A deep-rooted fear manifests itself, as a tiny voice in the back of my head tells me it’s the police, that they’ve come to take me away again. And as unrealistic as I know it is, I don’t think I can handle that.

Still, I do as I’m told (I have no real reason not to), and cautiously make my way down the stairs. I stare at my feet in a desperate attempt not to fall over them, and to delay having to meet my doom for as long as possible.

I don’t expect to see Baz leaning against the chipped white entryway, somehow managing to look cool and at home, here of all places. The corners of his lips pick up ever so slightly when our eyes meet, though you’d have to have really studied his face to notice it (luckily, I have a lot of practice in that department. If Baz was an exam, I think I’d get at least a B).

“Morning Snow,” he nods at me, and all I can do is stare in disbelief, my brain not quite being able to place these two vastly different aspects of my life together.

“Well,” he continues, after I just stand there gawping at him ridiculously, rather than replying to his greeting, “I suppose it’s time then. Sign yourself out Snow, you’re eighteen. I’m offering you somewhere to live.”

**BAZ**

It’s worse than I thought it would be. As I stand here, in this run-down little building, floorboards creaking unsteadily under me, and the distinct smell of something unclean coating the walls, I feel my anger towards the Mage grow ten sizes more. How can he leave is precious Chosen One, his prodigy, his _protégé_ in a place like this? It’s not like he lacks the funds, he’s been silently stealing from the Families for years.

It takes Snow a few seconds to catch up with me, but he’s soon firing a response at me, in an unusually adept manner.

“Are you being serious? I can’t live with you!” He’s half whispering; he knows the care worker is hovering- does he not realise his ‘hushed’ tones aren’t concealing anything?

“Of course you can,” I shrug, in a way that is meant to look casual. When in reality, my entire being is hanging off his reply. “Or would you rather stay here?” I raise an eyebrow at that, though I know it will infuriate him. Anything to get him to agree.

“But, your parents-”

“Are none of your concern,” I wave him off, cutting his words off. In truth, I’m not precisely sure yet what I would do about Father and Daphne, but I know them well enough to know their pride is more important than anything else, and that they’d hate to cause such a scene as throwing the Mage’s Heir out onto the streets, a few weeks before school starts. Maybe simply reminding them of this will be enough. Or maybe they won’t need reminding at all.

“Well go on, get your things. I don’t intend to spend my whole day standing in a doorway.” I don’t want to spend another minute here; I don’t want _Snow_ to spend another minute here. I want to take him back to my house, to my room, to my bed, where I know he’s safe, where we’re both safe. In our own little universe, away from the cold, dirty, grimy reminder of reality.

He stares at me for half a second more, weighing up his options, and a part of me wonders if, after everything, he’s still afraid of me. I don’t think he’d come and live with me, in my vampire mansion with my evil parents, if that was the case though. At least, I hope not, anyway. He scurries back upstairs though, and not two minutes later he’s back, dragging a black binbag half filled behind him, thumping as it drops down each step.

He makes his way over to the desk, answers some questions and signs a couple of documents, while I stand patiently behind him. The process is over much more quickly than I expected, and he leads the way out, dragging the bag behind him, and holding the door open for me.

He stops when we’re outside and down the path, taking a deep breath and sighing a deep sigh of contentment. Of freedom.

Then, without warning, he turns and kisses me, right there in the middle of the street. I quickly reciprocate (obviously) pushing my hands into his hair and running them through his curls, thanking magick that this wasn’t some dream, that I haven’t lost this. That Simon Snow is here, safe in my arms again.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against my cheek, when we finally pull away. I’m sure people are staring. I couldn’t care less.

I pull back to look at his face, meet his pure blue eyes, so he can see my own earnest expression, in a rare moment where I let the mask drop. “Anything Simon. Anytime, anything.” And I pull him into my arms, where I know he’ll be safe, where I can make sure he’s safe, where I wish I could hold him there, safe for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Just one more chapter to go now :)


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I loved writing it :,)

**SIMON**

Being back at Baz’s house in the day is weird, and I’m starting to wonder if I made the right decision. But then Baz squeezes my hand, gently, before letting it go and leading the way inside, and I know that I am, that there’s nowhere else I could be (literally).

I’m expecting to be greeted by something sinister, by his dark and scary parents that the Mage always warned me about. Instead, I’m immediately faced with a (still arguably as intimidating) six-year-old girl.

“Mordelia, get out of our way,” Baz greets her, apparently accustomed to being affronted like this every time he gets home. It’s sort of nice.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” I mutter, and I _feel_ Baz smirk from beside me. Apparently, years of literal stalking doesn’t tell you everything about a person.

“Who’s that?” Mordelia (what is it with this family and weird as fuck names?) points at me, before crossing her arms, wearing a disgruntled expression that is so Baz-like I have to stop my mouth from dropping open in shock.

“No one,” Baz tries yet again, to push us on upstairs, but his little sister is faster (is this Baz’s greatest weakness? Have I stumbled upon it accidentally?).

“I’ll call Mum,” she threatens. I swear, are all of Baz’s family raised on threats and blackmail? This girl is half the size of me, but probably just as dangerous. It freaks me out.

“No, you won’t,” Baz scoffs, calling her bluff, and rolling his eyes. Apparently, he’s unfazed by this whole interaction, which honestly just unsettles me further.

“Mum! Baz-”

“Okay, okay. God, Mordelia, no need to be so overdramatic all the time,” he rolls his eyes, as if this isn’t the most hypocritical thing he’s ever said. I’m beginning to wonder if I fell into an alternate universe when I first entered Hampshire. But then I remember Baz’s lips on mine, and I know that this is the realest anything has ever felt.

“He’s a friend. He’ll be staying with us for a while,” he doesn’t offer anything else, yet somehow she allows us to pass. She doesn’t realise her own potential yet- she definitely could’ve gotten more information out of her brother if she’d wanted (fifth year me would’ve _loved_ her).

Baz leads me upstairs to his room in silence, and I start to wonder if he’s already regretting bringing me here. I try to think if there’s anywhere else I could go if he chucked me out- Penny’s? Her parents wouldn’t be pleased but would they turn me away? They’d probably ring the Mage, which would probably be worse. I could live on the streets for a bit anyway, it’s not so bad. I’ve done it before.

The moment the door is closed, Baz groans, collapsing dramatically on his bed (I swear to God, can nothing be done without the theatrics around here?).

“Merlin, she gets worse and worse every day,” he laments, rubbing his temples for emphasis. I perch hesitantly on the bed next to him, suddenly nervous.

“Are you not going to tell your parents?” I blurt out. I mean, I could handle being holed up in here for a few weeks if I really have to, but I don’t exactly know how Baz would even manage that.

“What?” he sits up, and I wonder if I just put my foot in it, “Of course I’m going to tell them, you numpty. I’d just rather it not be as a result of one of Mordelia’s periodic tantrums.” He slips his hand into mine, and I see through the irritated expression for a moment, into his true vulnerability.

I take his face with my other hand, and bring his mouth to meet mine. He kisses me back gently, melting into it, his fingers twisting into my hair in a way that makes my spine tingle, and I suddenly wonder how long he’s wanted this.

I pull away from him, suddenly, and he glares at me in annoyance, moving off the bed, and starting to unpack some of my clothes. I lay my head back, in the position he was in before, and stare at his ceiling. It’s weird, just like every other detail of this house.

“Baz?”

“What?” he snaps, and I can hear the rustling of the plastic bag. I cringe at the thought of the God-awful second-hand clothes he must be looking at, and try to focus on the swirls and patterns etched into the weird fucking ceiling (who needs patterns on the ceiling anyway?).

“Do you want this?” I ask. The rustling stops.

“What are you talking about, Snow?” He sounds exasperated.

“I mean, me. Do you want me?” It gets very quiet suddenly, and I regret fucking everything up again. Things were easier when I didn’t think.

“I’ve been kissing you back, haven’t I?” He finally responds, in a murmur, after an age of waiting.

“No, I mean. Do you want there to be an us? A, you know, a you and me,” I sit up properly so I can gesture better; I’m really fucking awful at this.

Baz is sitting, bewildered, in a pile of my clothes, with my Watford rucksack clutched in his lap. He looks up at me, his eyes wide, as if he doesn’t quite know the right answer to this question, as if, somehow, _he’s_ the one worried about fucking this up.

“It’s all I’ve wanted since I was fifteen, Snow,” he murmurs, refusing to meet my eyes, fidgeting with the zip on my bag.

“Good. Because I want it too.” I slide down onto the floor next to him, and take him in my arms again, leaning up to press a kiss onto his forehead. He catches my lips with his, and I press my hands to the back of his neck, warming his icy skin and feeling him shiver at the contact. Eventually, he pulls away (I wasn’t about to do it), wearing a slightly concerned look (not what I was going for, but okay).

“Wellbelove?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. And if it wasn’t for the events of the last twenty-four hours, I would think he was just trying to piss me off. But I think all the sarcasm and snappy comments are really just a coping mechanism. The same way I don’t think, and Penny starts to ramble. They’re unhealthy, but they keep us safe.

“We broke up, just before the summer.” He raises an eyebrow at me again, and I feel a need to expand, “She broke up with me,” I sigh, “But it wasn’t working. I don’t think I really loved her,” I whisper. I hadn’t told anyone that part, not even Penny.

Baz’s arms circle round my waist, and he pulls me to him, burying his face into my hair. We don’t say anything, but it’s enough. I can smell his fancy fucking shampoo, and feel his hair tickling the back of my neck. And it’s enough.

**BAZ**

We stay in my room for most of the day, partly because I need to drink in this pure, unadulterated _Simon,_ and partly because I’m avoiding my father. I know I’ll have to tell him eventually, but I’d much rather spend as much time as I can in this limbo of bliss, before he inevitably stomps all over it. Not that I even think they’ll kick Snow out (they’re much too polite), but they’re sure to say something to ruin this.

Eventually though, I know I have to bring him down to join the others for dinner. Although I won’t be eating, it’s expected for me to join, and I think Snow might actually go off on me if I don’t feed him. I give him some of my clothes to wear (the clothes he brought truly are awful) and spell them to fit him properly, before dragging him downstairs, already mourning the loss of the relative safety of my room.

Once downstairs, I almost regret my choice, as Daphne drops a china plate to the ground when she turns round and sees Simon Snow in the dining room. I do feel bad (it was one of the nice ones) but she’s quick to magic it back together again, though her shock means it takes her several mutterings to get **“good as new!”** to work for her.

“Mother, Father,” I nod at them, in greeting, “Simon will be staying with us for the remainder of the summer. I do hope that’s okay.” I drag Snow down onto the seat next to me, refusing to give anyone any room to debate this. Daphne is (bless her) the first to respond, in an attempt of some form of hospitality, uttering a muddled greeting, and placing the (now fixed) plate in front of Snow, who smiles gratefully, if not awkwardly.

Mordelia is by now completely bored by this new development, having no doubt spent most of the late morning pondering it, and adamantly refuses to let anyone else be caught up by it, launching straight into a ten-minute debate about a TV show she was watching, which eventually leads into the daily segment of: “Why Baz should let me use his violin/wand/pen/whatever one of my possessions she’s currently captivated by”. I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for her. I make a mental note to grant her one of her wishes by the end of the holiday (not the violin though, obviously).

Snow’s too caught up with his food to pay much attention to the awkward atmosphere, hoovering his meal up like it’s the first he’s had in weeks. And, despite everything going on, my heart breaks at the thought that- other than the food I was bringing him- it probably is. And I know then that I’ve done the right thing bringing him here, no matter what happens next. I squeeze his hand under the table, and feel him gently squeeze it back, and he grounds me. And I know I can deal with whatever storm this brings.

After the ordeal of dinner is finally finished, my father (who has very deliberately been staring down at his plate for the entire meal), gestures for me to join him in his office. I glance at Snow, who- bless him- is helping Daphne and Vera clean up, with one of the twins practically plastered to his leg (my siblings seem to have taken an enormous liking to Snow- I guess it must be a genetic thing), and decide he’s probably safe for the minute, before following my father into his Office of Doom (Mordelia’s name, not mine) (though oddly appropriate).

The moment the door is closed, I feel the room get colder. I sit in the chair across from him, like I know I’m expected to, because even when there’s no spectators, we do what is expected.

“Any particular reason why the Mage’s heir has decided to stay with us?” he leans across his desk towards me, and I don’t think he even means for it to be intimidating. That’s just how he is. “Please tell me you have a plan here, Basilton.”

“There is no plan, or scheme Father, I’m not Fiona,” I roll my eyes, though I’m dreading her reaction to all this. No doubt is she going to have a field day when she finds out. “He needed someplace to stay, and it’s not like we’re short on space. That’s all there is to it.” I lean back in the chair, trying my best to act comfortable and at ease.

“And you don’t think this is a plot by the Mage? We have a lot of valuable information here, a lot of,” he looks at me pointedly, “ _things_ we wouldn’t want to get out.”

I’m a homosexual vampire. I’m not sure which of these is worse.

“It’s not a plot, Father,” Crowley, I feel like it’s fifth year and I’m talking to Snow, “the Mage doesn’t even see him in the summer. Just leaves him in a home to rot.” I spit that last part. The Mage will pay for what he’s done.

My father leans back: I don’t think he was expecting me to say that. We sit in silence for a moment, a battle to see who will be first to crack. Or maybe he simply has nothing to say.

Eventually, he stands, waving me out ahead of him. And from Malcolm, that’s as good as approval.

I do my best not to race to the kitchen where I know Snow is, but I can’t help it: when I see his bouncing curls, his freckles laid out innocently across his skin, I grin. His eyes reach to meet mine, and he smiles, softly, back at me. And he’s safe. We’re safe.

**SIMON**

Being in Baz’s house isn’t nearly as weird as I expected it to be.

The baby smiles at me now, every time I enter a room. And it feels like a reward, just for being there. That unconditional validation is something I’ve never experienced, so who cares if it’s from an infant?

The twins instantly fell in love with me, and sit and whine outside Baz’s door (everyone seems to silently know that they are far more likely to find me in there than in my own assigned room) if I don’t sit and play with them for long enough. Baz finds it a constant nuisance (I think he finds most things a constant nuisance) but I think it’s sweet.

Mordelia was harder to win over. But after I agreed to watch her TV show with her, and convinced Baz to let her hold his violin (“ _you can_ hold _it Mordelia, nothing else_ ) I think she’s learnt to tolerate me.

Malcolm still doesn’t talk to me. And he tries not to look at me unless he really has to (one time I spilt a whole jug of water across the table, and he still managed to keep his eyes fixed on his plate). But that’s okay. He hasn’t kicked me out yet, or called the Families (as far as I know), so I think that that’s a win.

I’m pretty sure Baz told his stepmother what happened with the home, because she immediately started asking me what my favourite meals were (“ _he’s literally a Hoover, Mother, he will eat anything_ ”); I think she realised food was the way to my heart. She lets me help her and Vera in the kitchen sometimes. It’s nice. Homely, almost.

The day Fiona came was probably worse, just because of the chaos she brought. She took one look at Baz and I sitting together ( _honestly_ , we weren’t even touching) and burst into a fit of laughter, that lasted a full five minutes, as everyone else stood by in shock, and I tried my hardest not to blush. She calmed down though, eventually, and spent most of the day verbally abusing me- nothing I wasn’t used to.

And then there’s Baz. It would be wrong to say he’s a different person, because the spite and sarcasm is still very much prevalent, but I read it differently now. It doesn’t get me all riled up anymore. It’s comforting, I think. At least, I’m glad it hasn’t completely changed.

Some things have changed, though. I mean naturally, considering he’s my boyfriend now. I’ve never had someone comfort me after a nightmare before, helped bring my magic down to the surface again, and talk me back to reality, when the dreams swirl together and it all feels like too much. He grounds me, and fuck knows how I got through most of Watford without this.

I ask him, a few days before we’re due back for the first day of term, what we’ll be like at Watford.

“I imagine it will be much of the same, Snow.” He doesn’t even look at me when he says this in his condescending tone, he’s busy flattening down his hair. I wish he wouldn’t- it’s a wasted effort anyway, he knows I’m just going to mess it up sooner or later.

So that’s exactly what I do. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms round his waist, leaning up on my tiptoes to push my face into his hair, breathing in the smell that is so much more than cedar and bergamot, but is so distinctly _Baz_. He sighs in mock annoyance, and twists in my arms to kiss me properly, pushing his hands into my hair, as some sort of revenge (I don’t even care).

When he pulls away, he rolls his eyes at me.

“I’m going to have to start all over now, thanks to you.” I pull back, and really look at him, drinking him in in disbelief that he’s actually _mine_. He rolls his eyes again, but I don’t miss the small smirk he wears when he does it, before quickly kissing my forehead and turning round to continue with his hair. I sit back onto the bed to watch him.

“Go on then. Carry on Basil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end!  
> Thank you to everyone who's followed along with me, and for all your support- I'm gonna miss this fic 🥺

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!  
> I'm going to try and update as regularly as I can, but bear with me lol, I have a lot of schoolwork at the moment :)


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